


Egg Nog

by NoelleAngelFyre



Category: Sabrina the Teenage Witch (TV)
Genre: A drabble about teen witches and their cats and love, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Late Night Conversations, Series Finale (AU), The benefits of egg nog, the wedding that wasn't, unusual couples
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 19:03:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10997043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: "Ask me again in seventy years."





	Egg Nog

**Author's Note:**

> Throwback to the 90s! I always loved "Sabrina: The Teenage Witch" (the live-action sitcom), and who doesn't love Salem Saberhagen? Being the patron of odd/unexpected/borderline-crack pairings that I am, here is the result of my shameless imagination. Please enjoy! :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing related to "Sabrina: The Teenage Witch". This is just for a bit of fun.

It’s two a.m. and she’s camped out in the kitchen, in her wedding gown, downing one carton of egg nog after another because it’s there and she feels like it. Outside, the picturesque wedding-ready weather has turned into a downpour, lightning and thunder included free of charge. The radio is burbling out some throw-back sappy love tunes from the 50s, at an unnecessary volume. But if Sabrina Spellman is going to be depressed—and she _is_ going to be depressed—she’ll be dramatic about it.

She wonders who, really, is to blame for all this. Been wondering for the last few hours, actually: ever since a wedding months in the making fell apart like wet toilet paper in a rainstorm (pun only slightly intended). Halfway through her (…fourth? fifth? Who cares?)—halfway through the current carton, Sabrina decides it really was a mutual affair. Too hasty on her part, too desperate to fulfil the pretty little fantasy of a little girl, and too attached to her cat.

(The last part was courtesy of Aaron, and not given in the kindest manner. Throwing her wedding bouquet in his face was a bit much, but it felt good.)

She’s _not_ too attached to Salem. Attachment has nothing to do with it. This is strictly a matter of maintaining world peace: her aunts have permanent residence on the other side, and leaving Salem alone isn’t an option because that cat can’t be trusted left to his own devices. He thinks too much, plots and schemes while he stuffs himself full, and schemes a little more while he’s digesting. That’s it. Nothing more.

(She’s been selling herself the same line all year. Somehow, when she’s floating down the egg-nog lazy river, her mind isn’t so quick to buy it.)

“If you turn him back into a goldfish, I’ll eat him for you.”

Sabrina rolls her eyes, tosses the now-empty carton to some unknown corner of the kitchen, and flops her head into a waiting palm. “Too many people heard the fight.” She mumbles. “He goes missing, I’m the first suspect.”

“No body, no crime.”

She smirks, a little. “You think about these things too much, Salem.”

He still wears his little tuxedo with the cuffs much too big for black paws peeking out underneath, and other than a tiny speckle at the collar (evidence that he taste-tested some of the wedding dishes before it was called off and the French-native chef started calling her a variety of unflattering names) he looks quite pristine. She half-expected him to be in bed, snoozing away his cares without a thought for her personal drama. But instead he’s here, with her, so when she pushes back from the table and grabs another carton of nog from the fridge, she also brings back a white bowl and pours Salem a generous helping before the drink ever touches her lips.

“Seriously, though,” he’s got an egg-nog mustache, “don’t waste your tears, Sabrina. He was a class-A jerk.”

“You’ve really got this whole ‘comforting in time of distress’ thing down, don’t you?” she takes another drink, too much at once, and barely saves the white lace trim with a quick reflex. Forgoing manners entirely, she sips the excess from her palm then dabs herself clean. She’s in good company for poor behavior.

“Sugar-coat a fact all you like, missy.” The mustache is getting bigger. She bites back a tiny grin, hides it in another (smaller) drink. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”

(Was Aaron a jerk? Sure, at the time, but she can’t really blame him for it. How else is a guy supposed to react when his fiancé leaves him at the altar? He was a jerk, she was a jerk. Everyone was a jerk. Just one big collective gathering of jerks.)

She takes another drink. Then another. At some point, she realizes Salem is still talking.

“…plenty more fish in the sea.” He’s saying, “So to speak.”

Sabrina supposes this is his idea of reassuring a failed bride-to-be when she’s chugging egg nog at some ungodly hour of the morning. “Sure thing, Salem.” She sighs, leans back in her chair, and ignores how tight this dress is starting to feel. “I’ll start looking first thing tomorrow. Or, today…whatever.”

“No need to look far.” He sounds pleased with himself, and that is almost never a good thing. “I’ve got just the guy in mind.”

This is not the conversation to have when she just left her last groom with a mouthful of baby’s breath and lilies, but it’s now three in the morning and she’s half-drunk on egg nog while having a conversation about relationships with a guy who got himself turned into a cat for sticking army flags on a game-board map. So, the heck with it. “And who would that be?”

“Oh, a buddy of mine…” Sabrina lifts an eyebrow but says nothing, “He’s what you might call a debonair fellow: polished, polite, lover of the arts.”

“Sounds cultured.”

“Quite so.” He’s dropping into his cultivated British accent, but it adds a little flair and flavor to this long-winded description, so she lets him go on. “Impressive educational background to boot, with a particularly well-honed palate (there is nothing worse than a picky eater, or someone who hates to eat period, you know). He’s also, if I may say, rather handsome. And…” pause, for effect, and she definitely knows Salem too well, too personally, when she’s narrating his dialogue like a screenplay, “…he has quite an eye for you, Ms. Spellman.”

It’s her turn to pause. “Is that so?”

“Mmhm.” He’s licking the bowl clean. She waits until he’s done, then tips the carton for a refill. “Has for a while, actually.”

“Interesting.” She pushes the empty container aside. Runs a hand through her hair. “And this is the first I’m hearing of him because…?”

“Well, let’s not kid ourselves, Sabrina,” he says, in that tone he always uses when preparing to say something particularly sassy, “you haven’t exactly been available as of late. Harvey, Josh, Jerk-Face…”

She gives him a look for the last one (the fact she agrees with such an assessment doesn’t matter; it’s the principle of the thing, or so she tells herself) then shrugs a shoulder. It’s half an acknowledgement of truth and half an encouragement to continue—or so he interprets, as evidenced, “He had no choice but to bide his time. Like a gentleman.”

“Hmm.” Her fingers tap-tap-tap on the tabletop. “And you think I’ll like this guy, even when I don’t know anything about him?”

“Might know him better than you think.” Salem retorts. He returns to his egg nog, she sits and thinks more seriously about all this than she should be, and silence follows. Five…ten…fifteen…at eighteen minutes, she stops tap-tap-tapping her fingers and shifts upright.

“I guess I feel kind of silly,” and she does, for a lot of reasons, “for not knowing this option even existed.”

“Well, it’s here, and it’s wearing a black fur coat.”

Sabrina sighs; drops her head in both hands. Stares at the floral-print tablecloth until it blurs in a mess of pastel green and shades of blue. Finally, she decides she’s had too much to drink (and those cartons must have been laced with rum) because there is no alarm going off in her head screaming “BAD IDEA! BAD IDEA!”

“Is this the part where I remind you,” she finally says, pleased when her words sound both coherent and logical, “you’re a _cat_?”

Good. So she hasn’t completely lost it, yet.

“Only for seventy more years.” He says, as though that’s just a short while away. “Maybe less, with good behavior.”

She cocks an eyebrow, unimpressed. He blinks, innocently, yellow eyes all big and wide and sweet. And her mind starts wandering: what do his real eyes look like? What color are they? What does Salem Saberhagen, Other-Realm felon, expert in all things related to global-takeover, look like outside of a black fur coat?

(She’s let her mind wander this same path before. She won’t admit, even to herself, how many times.)

Her silence implies reluctance, which is true, or a flat-out refusal, which isn’t true even when it should be. “I can be quite tender, Sabrina.” He purrs, low and smoky and yet it manages to sound completely ridiculous because it’s coming from _him_. This is Salem. Salem, the cause of too many mishaps and more than one misuse of power and stress-migraines. He gets her in more trouble than she needs, causes plenty more on his own, and he’s not one to change his ways anytime soon.

(He’s also her confidant, the one ready with a sure supply of wit and sarcasm to make her smile and laugh. He gives questionable fashion advice. He keeps her company on those nights when she just can’t sleep and he’s slept too much during the day. He started World War III out of pure distress, that she wasn’t there because she was in Europe. Yes, this cat started a universal disaster just to get her back home.)

“You’re crazy, Salem.” She says, but it comes out far more affectionate than intended. She’s smiling, and not to mock the absurdity of how she’s being propositioned by a cat.

“Of course I’m crazy!” he beams, all white teeth and egg-nog mustache and black fur. “You think a guy would do half the stuff I’ve done if he _wasn’t_ crazy?”

She laughs, loud and ridiculous, and it feels good to just laugh and not care. Not care about anything, in fact. Not care about tomorrow, and the tomorrow after that, and the many tomorrows still to come, but instead lean forward and press a tiny kiss to fuzzy lips stained sweet with nog and still be smiling when she sits back.

“Ask me again in seventy years.”


End file.
